


And Hearts That Don't Sing

by fightingthecage



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Blowjobs, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Javert survives, M/M, Madeleine Era, Non-Consensual, Post-Canon, Rape, Toulon Era, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-22
Updated: 2014-02-23
Packaged: 2018-01-13 09:20:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1220995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fightingthecage/pseuds/fightingthecage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Javert witnesses an assault on a certain prisoner. Over the years, it becomes something that won't go away.</p><p> </p><p>TRIGGER WARNING: RAPE. Seriously. Cannot make this clear enough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: RAPE. Just in case you missed the tags, and the summary. Last chance to turn back.
> 
> As for the fic itself...*blows air out* Well. It was in my head, so I wrote it. There's three chapters, and I've written it all over a twelve hour period, or so. I'd post it all, but I think the last chapter needs a work-over, so I'll hang on to the rest for now.
> 
> I get that this isn't everyone's cup of tea, but comments and con crit are always welcome.

 

 

_1798\. Toulon._

 

 

‘Get on up there. Try not to shit yourself.’

 

Javert’s mouth twisted into a curl of distaste, but he said nothing. There was a shove on his backside, so he took the rungs two at a time. It was a short ladder in any case. They could have joined the top of the wall further along and not used it at all, but Allard did not like to walk. It had not taken him all this first week to learn that much.

 

He pulled himself up over the lip, and stood with no fear. A drop from this height would kill anyone, even if there were not sharp steps below. The wind was ferocious, and the clear view out to sea showed a bank of dark clouds massing over the water. The rain would roll in later, maybe a storm too. Javert did not mind that. It made the place smell different. Not better. Just different.

 

‘Move over there. I can’t get up with you blocking the way. Afraid you’ll get blown over the edge?’ Allard puffed as he clambered the last few rungs; Renoir, behind him, rolled his eyes. Javert did not smile in recognition, he just moved. When the three of them stood - the fat one still catching his breath, Renoir training his eyes on the specks of red below - Javert followed the lines of rope out to the boat listing in the shallows. Allard looked at him.

 

‘Don’t you ever say anything?’ he asked, accusation hidden in a laugh. Javert shrugged.

 

‘Yes.’

 

Even that was enough to make him wince, and Allard made it worse by snorting. Even Renoir looked his way. ‘Oh, I see. Well, don’t worry. You’ll get lessons, and anyway, sounding like _them_ ,’ he nodded below, ‘might make some of them decide not to eat you alive.’

 

‘Might make you a favourite,’ Renoir added, in a spiteful, faux-helpful tone. ‘‘course, it might make it worse too.’

 

Javert did not look at either of them. They were not to know that his accent stood as it did after years of careful work on his part. He had thought he might pass, by this point. Clearly not.

 

‘Can you read?’

 

‘A little.’

 

‘Use a sword?’

 

‘A stick.’

 

‘A knife?’

 

‘Yes.’

 

Allard sniffed. ‘Not surprising. Well, all right. This is where you’ll be working the next couple of weeks. Just stay on the wall while they’re down there. You won’t be bothered - none of them have managed to scale this yet, and none have tried in broad daylight. Just keep a watch, and count on every hour to make sure none have drowned. You understand?’

 

‘Yes.’

 

Renoir swore, then. He had not stopped watching the convicts. ‘Look - there!’

 

They looked. Far below, it seemed a fight was breaking out. Someone was being held under the water, and everything else was unclear. A couple were being dragged away by one man, who then promptly dropped them and hit another. He was set upon, but stood his ground. Distant shouts rose, broken apart by the sound of water slapping rock, so only jagged fragments of words remained. No sense could be made, beyond the obvious violence.

 

‘Who is it?’ said Allard. ‘I can’t see.’

 

‘Don’t know,’ said Renoir, and spat over the edge. ‘Don’t matter. They’ll all get the whip for it.’

 

‘That one, though. Do you-’

 

‘It is 24601.’

 

They turned their heads towards him. Javert looked back steadily. Only when Allard frowned did he see they did not understand. ‘My eyes are good.’ They continued to stare. ‘And I recognise 24601 from seeing him yesterday. I checked his chain, and that of the man being held underwater. That is 32134. They were sharing the shackle. I do not know the others.’

 

Allard looked surprised, but Renoir just smirked and snorted a wad of phlegm from his throat. He worked it around his mouth for a second, than spat that too. ‘Good enough for me. What do you think, Allard?’ They exchanged a glance. Renoir; small, skinny, with devious eyes; and the fat man, with the backside so big he practically waddled. Javert had to look away before his disdain showed, but he did not do it so quickly that he missed the silent conversation between them. He was who he was, but he was not stupid.

 

‘I think,’ said Allard, ‘that we should make sure proper discipline is upheld. Convicts are not allowed to fight. You would do well to remember that, boy,’ he added, to Javert.

 

‘Yes.’

 

‘Renoir? Shall we?’

 

Renoir laughed, and made for the ladder. Javert went to follow. Allard put a hand on his chest. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’

 

‘Monsieur Henri said I was to stay with you all day. You are to show me each duty post.’

 

‘Yes, but that was before this. Run along back to quarters, now. You’re not on full duty for another three weeks. Take the time off while you can get it.’

 

‘I do not want time off.’

 

‘Oh, let him come,’ came Renoir’s voice, from below. ‘I’ll lay money on him enjoying it.’

 

‘Renoir. No.’

 

‘Hurry up, you fat fool. Do as you will with the child, but hurry up.’

 

Allard stood a moment longer, torn. Then sighed, and turned himself to the ladder. ‘Go and rest. You can find us later, if you like. We’ll be in the solitary cells, I should think. But Javert-’ he looked up, half his body now lower than the wall, ‘-there are things you do not need to learn yet. You should stay away.’

 

Then, he was alone. He turned his face back to the sea, and breathed in the fresh, clean salt of it. It took away the stench of bodies and rot, that he had lived with his entire life. He was at work, like a man. He was on the path to light. He would not go and rest, like a toddling child after a drink of milk. He would go and learn.

 

Below, the fighting convicts were being yanked from the chain, and beaten with sticks. Javert watched, and felt nothing. They were pulled to their feet, and led back to the prison. As they stood, Renoir and Allard rounded the base of the wall, and joined the guards bringing the men in for punishment. Even from here, Javert could see the way Renoir smiled.

 

*

 

He walked through the twisted intestines of the bagne with care, because he had been told that he could never be sure what waited around the corners, or in the nooks of the walls. Even a prisoner let off the chain for good behaviour, to provide help with serving food or fetching water, could turn in an instant to the feral beasts they all were underneath. He must remain vigilant at all times. And so he did, because words from the lips of Monsieur Henri were as good as gospel to him; better, even.

There was no need of it this evening, as it turned out. The prisoners were all in their _salles_ on the hulks _,_ except those out for punishment. He made his way to the _salle des indociles_ first, but there was no sign of Renoir or Allard. The only other place they could be were the cells for solitary confinement, and indeed, he heard Renoir’s dirty snigger long before he found the room they were in.

He had meant to announce himself. He had meant to declare that he was man enough to be present at any punishment given, be it flogging, or whatever. He had never been squeamish at the sight of blood, not even on someone who did not deserve it. And these creatures did deserve it. There was no doubt of that in his mind.

He did not announce himself. Not only because he was still not sure if Allard would complain about his presence – he knew Renoir would, and was not concerned about that – but also because he was not prepared for what he saw. He could not explain it to himself, though he tried. He had expected a whip and, given that time had passed since they came in, blood. And…what? A prisoner in pain, taking his beating. Maybe tears. Maybe cries and groans. Not…this. This was strange. This was fear in the air, wafting out through the grill in the door. It was a strange tension; nerves, and anticipation, and a wary look in the prisoner’s eye; Allard’s baton not at an angle to strike, Renoir’s altogether too loose in his hand as he paced the end of the cell in an easy lope, looking for all the world like a lion padding around its meal. Javert paused, and tried to reconfigure his expectation. Were they practising leniency on the man? Surely not. And there was a small cry then, but it was not 24601, who knelt in plain sight in the middle of the room. It came from the corner. Javert stepped close to the door, and tilted his head to press it flat to the wood, trying to sidle a glance. It was 32134. He could just see the side of his chest and head as he huddled in the juncture of two walls. He was curled in on himself, and seemed to be crying.

Javert pulled his head back, his fingers still touching the door. This felt unusual. He did not know the usual protocol with regard punishment yet; he had only seen one in this, his first week. But it had been conducted out of doors, where everyone was made to see. A man tied to the post and whipped until he lost his senses, and made a mess on the ground. That had been one thing. This – private, near-silent, and with its loaded air…no, he was not sure what was occurring here.

‘You know what’ll happen if you don’t comply,’ he heard. It was Allard’s voice, soft and almost gentle. Javert watched, nerves springing to life in his gut as the baton was brought to the level of the convict’s head. There was no strike, though. Allard rested the tip next to ear, and left it there. Renoir paced the stones.

‘And you know what happens when you don’t behave. Yet you still do it.’

24601 spat on the floor. The baton moved, quick as a snake; Javert saw skin break on the ridge of the man’s cheekbone as his head snapped ‘round – for a second, he was sure he had been seen, and his stomach jumped…but no, the eyes were closed in pain. He brought his head back around, and Allard stroked the thick part of the wood down his jaw. ‘You tried that last time, do you remember? So now, some added incentive.’ A jerk of his head to the corner. ‘You are here because of your friend there, aren’t you? Not everyone has your strength, 24601. Do you think he would take it better than you? Do you think we could beat some sense into him, as it doesn’t work on you? Maybe you will pay for his weakness, and he could pay for your strength. What do you think, mmm?’

24601 glared, pure defiance written in the lines of his murky face. ‘You think I care what happens to him, or any of them?’ It was the first time Javert heard him speak. His voice was not as expected. Lower. Rougher. More a growl than anything.

‘Yes,’ said Allard. ‘Yes, I do. Because if you didn’t, you wouldn’t have hit the others who were taunting him.’

It seemed logical to Javert. He could not understand why Valjean did not just take the beating. Why waste time pretending not to feel something he obviously did? And he would get the stick anyway; here, or on public display. Those were the rules.

Allard was stroking his baton down his jaw again. And then again. It was almost a caress. ‘Come on, now,’ he said, still in that gentle tone. The baton touched the convict’s lips. ‘Come on.’

Javert watched, frowning, as 24601 held himself steady. And then an expression of pure hate flashed across the heathen face, and his shoulders sagged. Just a fraction, but it was enough. Allard smiled. 24601’s gaze dropped to the floor. And Allard began to unfasten his trousers.

Javert froze at once, in body and thought. He stood, dumb, hearing the quiet rustle of clothes being opened, but not quite understanding what it meant. Or rather, not wanting to believe what it meant, because while he had only been working here a few days, he was sure this, whatever _this_ was, could not be regulation. But it was a guard standing there, opening his trousers, pulling his prick free. And the convict was…he was a convict, only a person in the loosest sense. They were all referred to as beasts; they ate like beasts, and shat like beasts, and acted like beasts and…Javert licked his bottom lip nervously, unable to move. Allard, shameless in the middle of the room, worked his hand along his own length with a smile. 24601 looked at the ground, until the baton moved again, back to his mouth, and ran over his lips. ‘Come on,’ the man said, and pressed it against his mouth. ‘Open up. Good boy.’

He did not open his mouth. Renoir, still pacing, said ‘ _putain_ ’ under his breath, and looked as if he would advance. Allard glanced up, and shook his head, and then once more caressed the wood down 24601’s jaw.

‘You have fought everyone. You have been whipped. You’ve been put in solitary confinement. You have had the double chain for years. You have tried to escape. You never learn, 24601. We thought these lessons might help – but you are giving us no choice.’

He pressed the baton under his chin suddenly, his breath wheezing louder in the loaded silence of the cell. He forced the convict’s head up, and then jerked his own towards the corner. ‘Open up, or this stick lands on the boy’s head. Do you think he’s got enough brains to stain the floor? We could find out.’

24601 did not yield. Javert held his breath. He could not decide which choice should be made, by him or by the prisoner. If he went in there, could he stop it? He was not sure; he did not know any of the men well enough to guess. And he could not decide if this was a just punishment, because if all those things were true, maybe it _was_ the only way to keep the man in line. And did it matter, in any case? A convict, just a convict.

Renoir swore again, and strode over to the corner. He raised his stick, and brought it down on 32134’s arm with a dull _thwack._ The man cried out; 24601’s eyes flashed sideways to watch. Allard did not. He stroked himself, smiling gently, breathing out through his mouth. ‘He won’t stop,’ he said, and Renoir proved it by landing another blow. ‘He’ll beat him black, and then…well, who knows? Do you think he could survive what you have? Do you?’

Javert could not see what was happening in the corner, but he could hear it. Renoir grunted with the effort he put into each blow, and the cries were turning to screams. Tension knotted in his gut, but at least _this_ punishment was normal. Prisoners were beaten constantly. They were fighting. This was just.

‘Enough.’

Javert looked to Allard, but it was not him who spoke. Renoir stopped hitting the boy, and spat on him instead. He stood a moment, face twisted in anger, and then stalked back to his end of the cell. It was impossible to miss his excitement, and Javert pressed his fingers harder into the wood. ‘Good,’ said Allard, a pink flush rising to his cheeks. ‘Yes, good.’

He stepped closer. 24601 did not move. But he did not resist when the baton pressed to his lips again; he let his mouth open, and allowed the thing to be inserted. ‘Suck,’ said Allard. Javert watched, locked in place as at first, the man did not. But then his jaw moved, his cheeks hollowed a touch, and he began sucking on the end of the stick.

‘ _Putain_ ,’ said Renoir again, louder this time. Allard watched, and breathed, and worked the wood in and out for a moment. And then made a noise that Javert had not heard for years, since his own days in a cell, and stepped closer still. His cock stood upright; he slid the wood free and grasped himself roughly, pulling it down to swipe over the convict’s lower lip. Javert saw the man’s eyes narrow in hate, but he did nothing to resist.

‘One hint of teeth,’ Allard said, ‘just one, and it is your friend who will regret it. You understand? More than one, and it will be assault on a guard. Do you know the penalty for assaulting a guard, 24601?’

It was death. It was the first thing Javert had been told. _They hit you, they die. Do not be afraid to report an assault._ But this was not assault, surely? He did not know how this act worked, but…but it looked as though he would find out. 24601 nodded, his gaze not leaving the man standing over him. Allard nodded back, and said, ‘open up.’

And he did. Just far enough. Allard slid his member into his mouth with an inhaled breath of satisfaction, Renoir increased his pacing, Javert could not move. It was obscene. He could barely breathe. It seemed to be happening in a dream, this disgusting thing in a disgusting place, a man being made to do _this_ while people watched…he closed his eyes. It did not help. ‘Suck,’ said Allard, his tone hoarse. ‘You stupid whore, _suck_.’ And he must have, because Javert could hear it, a wet slurp and then a groan, a grunt, and the start of a rhythm that was impossible to mistake. He opened his eyes to see Allard jerking his hips in and out, his prick wet and shining as it appeared and disappeared into the convict’s mouth. 24601 had his eyes closed, but it did not seem to matter.

‘Now,’ said Renoir, and Javert was glad to look away to take him in. Until he saw him, walking back and forth, tension in every sinew of his wiry frame. He was pulling at his trouser buttons, and again, Javert did not understand. Would they take turns? ‘ _Now_ ,’ he said again, and Allard nodded his head. His baton was still in his hand, looser now; for a second, Javert thought of running in and taking it off him. But then what?

Renoir stepped forward. He circled them both, his fist opening and closing. Javert watched because he did not see what was going to happen. But he did not have to wait long; Renoir reached down, and put the end of his stick at the convict’s hip. He watched Allard’s prick for a moment, and then made a sound, and slowly, deliberately, pushed 24601’s trousers down over his rear.

Javert gasped. He could not help it. Some dim part of him realised that he himself was not unaffected; that his body was responding in ways it should not. He felt nothing but sickness, but the air itself was charged with something he did not fully comprehend. It buzzed over his nerves; fear and horror, and the obscene rawness of flesh. He pressed the fingers of both hands to the door, and could no longer look away.

Renoir circled behind the kneeling man. Allard brought his hands up, held his baton at either end and placed it behind 24601’s head. ‘One hint of teeth,’ he gasped, quietly. ‘Remember that.’

And he pulled, drawing the man forward. Held between the body of Allard and the wood behind his head, with a cock in his mouth, 24601 had no choice but to lean forward. His eyes were squeezed tight now, and Javert could see the fists his hands made. But he kept moving, kept accepting what he was forced to take. Allard only let him stop when he was on all fours, and Renoir wasted no time. He pulled his trousers open, revealing a prick entirely disproportionate to his size. It swung gently  in the air, reaching out in front as if searching…Javert shook his head, _no_ , this had to be wrong. But he did not move, and Renoir fell to his knees with a grunt, spat on his hand and pulled it roughly over the head of his cock. That was all. He grabbed it, yanked the convict’s trousers further down, and simply thrust his way inside.

24601 made a sound like a shot cow. The man in the corner whimpered loud enough to be heard over Renoir’s guttural roar, which was deep and primal; Allard sped his hips, watching his partner, and Javert bit a knuckle to stay silent. He did not know what to do, and now it was surely too late to do anything. Renoir showed no mercy, thrusting hard and for his own pleasure. Allard’s face was twisted into something that looked like pain, but probably was not. Javert could not look at 24601. He was suddenly aware of his own body in a way that disgusted him more than the scene in front. His trousers were straining, and the shame of watching this debased act did not seem to matter to his sixteen year old body; he had never thought of this, not with a man, and never like _this_ with anyone. It had never seemed important. But he could not look away. Allard was forcing himself into the face of the convict now, not letting him breathe, jerking his hips fast and hard and holding the man’s head against his groin; 24601 was choking, trying to get away, and Javert found himself breathing faster in sympathy, trying to help him along. Allard pulled back suddenly; the convict gasped and then retched as his throat was assaulted again and then freed, and then Allard jerked all over, and squealed, and shoved back in and stayed there, shaking. Javert watched with wide eyes as 24601 was made to swallow, eyes popping and red-faced, spit falling down his chin. And then Allard relaxed, but still held his head, and drew his hips back. Not enough to let his cock fall free. ‘Lick,’ he said, his voice in a quiet dream. ‘Lick it clean.’

The man’s tongue came out slowly, and pulled along the bottom. Then it swirled over the head. Javert had to grip the door. His own chest was heaving. Renoir was pushing hard; he was so small compared to the hulk of 24601, the convict barely moved. But every thrust made his eyelids flicker in pain, and by the way his throat still worked, he was fighting to hold in the noises. Javert tasted blood in his own mouth; he had bitten through the skin of his knuckle, and his body would not behave. ‘Lick,’ said Allard again, and again that tongue, slow, like a big cat along the bottom of a saucer of cream, and Javert could not look away, and knew he was going to lose this fight. He had no choice but to clutch between his legs; making it hurt did not help, it made it worse. Renoir was groaning on every thrust; Javert, as a desperate precaution, unbuttoned his own trousers, because he could not bear to sully his uniform this way. He would not help this along. He could not bear it. He simply held himself gently between thumb and forefinger, pointing away from the sacred blue of his coat. _Please_ , he thought. _Grant me control._

Allard was almost soft. He allowed 24601 to lower his head. Renoir started shouting roughly, _putain putain putain_ and threw himself against the unmoving stone of the convict’s mass. Javert could see the man’s soft prick dangling unhappily below him, and tried to force the image away, but it did not matter because Renoir buried himself one last time, and managed to move the man on this final, forceful thrust, at last. Javert held his breath once more, watching the fiend turn red and mottled, clawing at the convict’s hips as he emptied inside him. 24601’s head hung down. It seemed over. Javert felt his body on a knife edge, teetering on the edge of an abyss he did not care to name…but he was safe, he thought. That was it.

Renoir pulled back. Javert bit his lip. As he came free, a trail of white came with him, a ribbon of viscous fluid, mixed with blood, oozing in a trail to the floor. It was the worst thing Javert had ever seen; he stiffened, choked quietly and his own prick emptied uselessly over the wood of the door.

He could not look away. He could not draw breath. He could not hide from the shame of it. He lowered his head, but could not avoid the evidence before his eyes. He closed them instead and, numb, made himself decent once more. Well. Put his prick back in his trousers. It was not the same thing.

‘So,’ said Allard, as Renoir fell back on to his haunches. ‘Do you suppose you’ve learned this time?’

Javert did not care what the answer would be. He stepped back. He did not want to see any more. It did not matter what 24601 said. They could not have been doing that to teach. It was for their own pleasure; it would not matter if the man never put a foot out of line again. They would surely find some excuse. Or perhaps just turn to another.

He willed himself to move. The only thing that could make this worse would be to get caught now. If they knew he was here, they might take measures to ensure he said nothing. And who knows what they would be?

He did not pay attention to his surroundings on the way out. If he had been attacked, he was not sure he would care. All he could think was that he should have done something – but this thought still warred with the fact that 24601 was a _convict_ , and did it really matter? And if he went to Monsieur Henri about it, would he be believed? Perhaps this was something that everyone did, and he was simply too new, too young, to have been told about it yet. Allard did tell him he did not need to know what was going to happen. _Yet_. Maybe it was something that would be expected of him, in time. And what then?

He did not know. He felt sick. Perhaps the best thing to do would be to forget he ever saw anything at all. If 24601 was confined, as he surely would be for fighting, then perhaps the answer would be more clear in a few weeks. Perhaps by then, he would understand better what to do.

He walked outside, and almost without thinking, went back to the wall of the dry dock, where this had started. His body felt scourged, his muscles sated with the after effects of release. He turned his face to the sea, and breathed in salt. Maybe it would rain. Rain made this place smell different. Not better. Just different.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: References to rape, and suicide.

 

 

_1823\. Montreuil sur Mer._

 

He did not want the mayor to be Jean Valjean.

There were many reasons for that, or at least, that was what he told himself. It was a clear fact – not a deduction, not a personal viewing, but a _fact_ – that the man was good for the town. Javert held no stock in the giving of alms, the free distribution of false kindness, but there were hospital beds now, which were good for those in genuine need, and there was employment. The amount of work was very good for proving the difference between those who wanted to earn an honest living, and those who did not; it made life far easier for the police, he would say that. Madeleine found jobs for anyone he could, as long as they were moral and upstanding, or said they were. So it stood to reason that any who did _not_ work for him, or anyone else, would be kept a weather eye on. Women who could not find work because of illegitimate children were fine candidates for becoming women of the town; men who could not would likely end as drunkards or thieves, or both. He had requested, more than once, that Madeleine inform the police when someone had been refused a job. He was denied each time, which was an annoyance, but a minor one. Montreuil was not large, and word spread eventually. It was also an annoyance that fairly often, those without a job would speak of finding money in their houses on waking, as if they expected him to believe they came into gold coins by magic. These people were undoubtedly criminals, but he could find no evidence. Of course he suspected the mayor, soft-hearted fool that he was, but charity was not illegal even if it was cruelty wrapped in silver clouds.

There was also the matter of the town’s expansion, and growing reputation. Since being pressed into the position of mayor, Madeleine had attracted much attention from the wider world. It reflected well on the police to keep order in such a place, to be seen working well with such a respected gentleman. It was an open secret that while the man had hundreds of thousands in the bank, more than a million of his own francs had been spent on the town itself – and Javert, for all his opposition to charity, could not find it in him to disapprove of a certain level of education, and the provision of medical care to those who could pay, or had been injured working. Even the old and infirm were welcome, to his mind, to the care of physicians and nurses, if they were of good standing. The sanitation was improving, which was always a marker for the growth of a town; the streets were well-lit - in the better areas at least - and the market thrived. These things spoke well of a place; they were civilised, and more importantly, they kept order. People with jobs, and doctors, and the ability to read at some level had no reason to complain, or rebel, or steal. There was a clear line drawn; those who deserved these things, and those who did not. The former took care of themselves, as they should, and the latter were there for him to keep in place.

It should work. It did work. No person could say it did not, and remain honest.

And yet.

On his first introduction to Pere Madeleine – when he had simply that name, and no other – Javert had narrowed his eyes. The man had been dressed in working man’s clothes, seeing to some labour in his factory. His first thought on that day haunted him still; _this is 24601_. But no, it was not. He was a fool. Javert was not, thankfully, a man to take his first instinct and throw it into the mechanisms of the law; were he to do that, he would never have succeeded the way he had. He had retreated, and thought, and learned what he could of this mysterious stranger. And the more he learned, the more the face of Madeleine became a face in its own right, with nothing lurking behind it. He could not shake the feeling of familiarity, but what did that mean? Many people vaguely resembled somebody else. And if he were honest with himself, which he believed he was, then he was forced to admit that he could not be sure, for the simple reason that he had always tried to avoid looking 24601 in the face. He knew why, but did not think of it. He never wanted to think of it again.

He had watched, though. He could not help it. Pere Madeleine became Monsieur le Maire. The day he was told of the appointment he had felt a mixture of rage, and relief. The man is a fraud! screamed one small, traitorous, part of his brain; the rest was glad, because the mayor of a town could not, simply could not, be an ex-convict. The matter was settled.

Except it was not.

He watched the man talk with people on the street, except he did not talk. He smiled, and that was all. He admitted no one to his home, until one day he was asked to prove that his chamber was some kind of lair…which apparently he did, except it was only an ordinary room. There was gossip on the street for a week; he had become accustomed to not listening to it, because talking openly of a gentleman’s bedchamber was worse than inappropriate. It made him quite angry. But then he heard the word _candlesticks_ , and everything changed. He listened voraciously from that point, but the gossip was dying down. He heard nothing more. For around one hour one afternoon, he contemplated asking the man to prove his chamber was not some shrine to Satan to _him_ – for the reason of investigating the candlesticks only, of course – but put it from his head almost at once. Madeleine was a good man. His actions proved it. Many people had candlesticks in their home.

He watched him make straw men for the children on the street, and help the farmers when the weather was inclement; he watched him leave his house with heavy pockets, and return with them empty. Officials came and went, discussing sanitation and schools, and all this was well. He himself spoke with the man every three days or so in an official capacity, more often if there was some crime more pressing than shouting in the street, or stray dogs making a nuisance of themselves. And every meeting was cordial, and professional, and yes, the man was a good man, and not at all the creature on his knees, being raped like a bitch on the floor.

‘You are angry with me,’ Madeleine said one day, with that same gentle smile he used on everyone. ‘Come, say your piece.’

They were talking of a place to give shelter to the homeless. Javert had any number of things he could say, but the man had seen the barber recently. His hair was cut closer than usual, and he could not shake an image, _that_ image, and he wanted nothing more than to leave. It was unprofessional, and he would force himself to stay. But he could not force himself to speak. ‘No, monsieur,’ he said, with a tight smile of his own. ‘Building work, so long as it abides by regulations, is not a matter for the police.’

‘But your views on criminality – I know you have those. You have alluded to them. Creating a space where thieves can conspire, is that not what I heard you say?’

‘Nevertheless. I am not angry. You are the mayor of this town, you will have your way. If your actions result in more crime, I will simply arrest the perpetrators. That is all.’

Madeleine looked frustrated at this exchange, but then, he often did. He often looked in other ways too; Javert trusted his eyes, even when expressions were seen only on the edges of his vision. The way the man frowned sometimes, and that once, when he, Javert, had expounded on the deeds of a repeat offender…a shift of his eyes to the side, a look quite unlike any seen on his face before. He knew he had not imagined it. He also knew he had seen it before; the glance of a convict weighing up the life of a chain-mate in one hand, versus the unspeakable deeds about to be forced on him in the other.

No. No. He was wrong. He would not believe it was the same man.

He did not want to believe it was the same man.

 

*

 

The truth of the matter was that he had promised himself he would put it from his thoughts, forever. He had managed this quite successfully once 24601 had been parolled. Prior to that – a distressingly long time, given the idiot’s propensity for running away – he had avoided him as much as possible. Though if he thought about it logically, which he did not as he never thought about it at all, he might come to the conclusion that running away was quite justified, given the circumstances. He had watched Renoir and Allard, though. He was never sure if they knew he was there that day. It did not seem to matter in the end; it became clear after a month or so that 24601 was not the sole object of their attentions. He never went near them when they were secluded in the solitary cells, and tried not to understand the remarks they made to each other sometimes, which were clearly a short-hand reference to their entertainment. They thought him stupid. He was a boy, and a convict’s boy at that; they made jokes about how clean he kept himself, and his uniform, and tried to get him to visit whores with them when their shifts were over. He never did. He never wanted to think about carnal relations again. He was sick, for his reaction to their abomination; he was not to be trusted. He always knew he was outside society, and this just proved it further. He dreaded the day he might happen across them again, and be proved for the despicable creature he was.

Perhaps it was this that drove him to speak to Monsieur Henri, three months into his working life. If they were wrong, they might be removed. If they were right, he could stop mentally flagellating himself for his reaction. Perhaps he was _not_ ill. But by then, it was too late, or he suspected it was. 32134 was dead. He hanged himself with his own twisted-up smock. Javert was there when the body was taken down; no one treated the man with any care, of course, and he did not deserve it. He was not a good worker. He was not strong. He cried often; even the convicts said this of him. But Javert watched as he was slung onto a cart, and could not help but wonder. Would he have done it anyway? Or was it because of that event? Was it, perhaps, that Allard and Renoir had moved their attention on to him? It was impossible to say. Still, he had not moved as the cart was driven away. There was a man at his shoulder, he remembered that.

‘A shame,’ was the mutter – whether the man was speaking to him, or to himself, he did not know. ‘He could have been saved.’

‘Go back to work, 24601,’ he had said in return, without turning around.

‘Yes, sir.’

And that was that.

He had knocked on Monsieur Henri’s door an hour later. He had framed the tale as a question – what are the guard’s limits? What is too far? – and Henri had stared at him.

‘You know this. You know the rules better than the men who have been here ten years, Javert. Better than me, probably. What’s this about?’

He had not said the word ‘rape’. It stuck in his throat. He still could not believe it had happened; the whole afternoon lived in his memory as a blurred nightmare, the air too thick, the smells too strong. The sun was hotter in his head, it had rained harder that night. He cannot possibly have seen what he saw; that sort of behaviour…except he had, and it was 24601’s anguish that told him he had. The silence, the way he had refused to move. The pain in his flickering eyes, and the way he had choked on Allard’s spit-shined cock. That filthy, sickening fall of white from between his buttocks. He could not think about it. He gave no details to Henri. He certainly did not admit his own perversion, though now, this many years later, that is an abomination to him. He should have said all, and taken the same punishment as the others. Guilt by tacit agreement. He had done nothing. He had sprayed like a dog on a tree. The fact of his youth was no excuse – but he had not admitted it, and had not been punished. Allard and Renoir were flogged, and cast out. If he thought about them now, he would very much hope they were dead.

So, no. He did not think about it anymore. Except when Madeleine turned a certain way in the light, or a headache made his eyes close, or cold weather exacerbated his limp. Then, he did.

He prayed, daily, that it was not the same man.

 

*

 

‘I tell you, that woman will not spend one day in jail.’

‘But, Monsieur le Maire!’

 

 

It had to be him. He could not deny his face any longer. He could not ignore that body a day more. And so what if it were he? So what if he saw what had happened to him? What does it matter than the man were treated so? He was a convict, and a beast, and he _broke the law_. He forfeited his right to humanity when he refused to behave like a human being.

Well, no more of this charity. His, Javert’s, charity. He would be unmasked. He would go back to where he belonged. Javert would prevaricate no longer, would not listen to the weakness of his own shame. He saw something, he did not stop it at the time. And what? He spoke eventually. It was seen to. It was done with. He was done with it. And he was done with foolish men who pretended to be mayors, too. Let it all be gone, and bother him no longer.

He jabbed his pen into the inkwell so hard it almost broke. The words were black on the page, clear on the white, no room for denial. _He is Jean Valjean_. There. Done.

 

*

 

A sword on wood. A body in the bed. There was no longer anywhere to hide.

Valjean swung like a desperate man. Javert could not say he did not quail a little, but his blood was up, and he would not be denied. All doubt had been removed, because there was no longer any place for it. When a man was not sure, he could entertain all kinds of thoughts. But the fault was clear, there was no more thought needed. Madeleine was no more. The scales of Justice had moved. There was only the arrest, and nothing more.

‘A _moment_ , Javert! It is all I ask.’

Valjean was not trying to hurt him, it was clear. And he in turn found that even through his fury, his outrage at this being and the fact of his existence, he had no stomach to drag him in bleeding. Not if there was no need.

He stepped back, his whole body heaving. He did not lower his sword.

‘A moment.’

Valjean dropped his stick, and turned to the woman. He arranged her a little, he spoke, he kissed her hand. She seemed to smile, but Javert had no care of that. Valjean stood straight, and smoothed his coat.

‘And now,’ he said, and turned to look him squarely in the eye. ‘I am at your disposal.’

The walk to the jail was bereft of words, though the jangling of the soldier’s uniforms flanking them was loud enough. There were few people about, but those there were stopped to whisper and mutter. Javert did not look at them, nor at Valjean. His satisfaction was calmed; he had his man. He had been right all this time. Valjean would go back to Toulon.

The realisation fell on him like a bucket of sea water in winter. Immediately, he pushed the feeling away. Again; and what? Valjean brought it on himself. If he had stuck to his parole, he would not be going back there. But no, the man had to go and wear the face of good; he had to pretend he was something greater than he was. It was his own fault.

The door closed with a bang. Javert watched him through the grill, his men and the soldiers melting away into the dark. Valjean walked to the middle of the cell, and turned. ‘Well,’ he said, for once without a smile. ‘You have disposed of me.’

‘You have disposed of yourself.’

‘Possibly.’ He walked in a small circle, looking around. But his gaze was pulled back to Javert, looking through the door. He stopped; his eyes narrowed. And then he smiled, sadly. ‘In Toulon, we are there to be used, and thrown away.’

Javert held his gaze. He could not deny a stab at the words. But Valjean could not know what he had seen. He was just making an attempt at gaining sympathy. There would be none here. ‘You have the cell to yourself. I suggest you use it to sleep.’

 

Somehow, it did not come as a surprise when the room was checked later, and found to be empty. He was more taken aback by a tiny, unbidden, feeling of relief.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

_1833\. December. Paris._

 

‘You are late! Come in, come in. I thought you might not want to walk in the snow. One day you will take a fiacre, and my heart will give out with shock. Here, I will take your hat. Go on through to the fire.’

Valjean was so pathetically glad to have an acquaintance, he was happy to see even him. Javert allowed this barrage of words, handed over his hat and coat, and did as he was told. There, he mused, standing in front of the fire. I am so pathetically glad to have an acquaintance, I am happy to be here. He held his hands out to the flames. They were shaking. It was very cold outside.

‘The tea is made, but may have cooled. Wait, I will check.’

He disappeared before Javert could stop him. Never mind, tea was usually welcome. It would be a good enough delay; Valjean would undoubtedly make more if he found the pot lukewarm. He rested his hands on the mantel, looked down into the fire, and tried to breathe. The snow seemed to have got into his lungs. Everything felt tight. He could not bear it.

‘Would you prefer coffee?’ The words floated out from the other room, stupidly cheerful, drowning out this oppressive room. He shook his head before realising that was pointless.

‘No,’ he said, and waited. The fire was too hot. If his face was red, it would be a handy excuse.

‘There,’ said Valjean, on entering the room. Javert looked over; this man was ridiculous. Huge, and strong, and broad as an ox, carrying a tea tray as daintily as a serving maid, except with a bigger smile. He had no idea what the man had to be happy about. Did he not know this was torture?

‘Thank you,’ he said, and turned back. Valjean poured. He had even brought sweet pastries. God only knew how he managed to have them fresh at this time of night.

‘Shall we play chess? Perhaps it is late. Do sit down Javert, your legs cannot be-‘

‘My legs are my affair,’ he said, more stiffly than intended. The instant silence was telling, and he raised his head, and cursed silently into the air. ‘Do not be wounded. My apologies. I do not mean to snap.’

‘Have I angered you? You did not have to come. The weather is terrible; I would have accepted a demurral.’

‘But not a refusal?’

‘…I confess, I had not considered you would attempt one.’

Javert sighed, and stepped away from the mantel. No, he would not have attempted one. He balled his hands into fists. They were still shaking. ‘I would not have refused. I will not demur. You ask me, and I come.’

Valjean looked wounded still, and all the more so for trying to hide it. But Javert knew better now; those stoic, neutral, expressions usually gave at the edges, when the man cared enough. And he cared now. He could not try to say otherwise. ‘I do not want you to feel obligated,’ he muttered, his eyes downcast. ‘I had hoped we were becoming-‘

Javert did not want to know. He cut in. ‘-I am aware. But…’

He sat down. His legs did, indeed, feel relief. Stupid, to act as though body parts had some outside thought, some mind of their own. Maybe it was because they so seldom felt they belonged to him, since the river.

Valjean offered a cup, and he took it. ‘But?’

‘I do not know. No! Wait. That is not true. See, I am speaking lies. Look how far I progress.’ He muttered this last to himself, to the tea he tilted to his lips. Valjean looked surprised. Confused, too.

‘Javert, you are acting very strangely tonight.’

‘You act strangely every time I see you, simply by the fact you see me at all. You offer invitations, I take them. You offer tea, I drink it. We play chess, and checkers, and cards. I do not understand any of it, and yet I am here, and you are there, and-‘

‘-have you been drinking?’

‘No!’

Two glasses of wine with a small dinner did not count as drinking, never mind that they were two glasses more than he usually took. He had to have something. There was no way to face this without _something_.

‘Javert.’ Valjean came around the table, and sank to his knees next to him. A hand went to his thigh. He started to speak; Javert allowed it only because he was too horrified to make words. ‘What is wrong? Forgive me if I am confused, but-‘

‘Valjean, get off the floor at once.’ His voice was tight, the sounds strangled in his throat. He did not think, but grasped the man’s shoulders and tugged. ‘Do not ever, _ever_ , go to your knees in front of me!’

Valjean, looking wounded, rose. ‘I do not…’

‘No. No, you do not.’

He stood, and paced away. He had been dreading this for a month; since the afternoon in this very room when Valjean kissed him first, and robbed the world of its last vestiges of sense. And since then, he had let himself fall into the belief that it might be all right, they might find a way. But it was impossible. What did he know of any of this? One thing, and one thing only.

He put his hand over his mouth, breathed in, and out, and tried to tell himself that feelings of panic were normal. Even if they had lasted weeks. He could not calm them, not even when he felt a hand on his shoulder, and the warm squeeze of Valjean’s palm. ‘You can tell me,’ he heard, and that was the problem. He probably could. But that was not the same as _should_.

Valjean had kissed him. He had eventually kissed him back, when he was convinced it was real. It was a poor attempt. Neither of them knew what they were doing, and he was not even sure he liked it. He was sure he did not like Valjean, except that what with a suicide attempt each between them – though Valjean would still claim his was not -  they had ended up with each other, and could not seem to part. And Valjean could not seem to stop smiling, the real kind that warmed his eyes, and he, Javert, felt the world was nothing but grey, except when he was here, in the light of that grin. But it was surely impossible.

He turned into the hand on him. Valjean was strong, and warm, and it was not the first time he had leaned upon his shoulder. His embrace was always the safest place in the world to be; he was practiced from being a father, probably. Whatever the reason, it calmed things. ‘What is wrong?’ he heard again, as a hand stroked the back of his head.

But he could not say. He shook his head, and pulled back silently, and could not look him in the eye. ‘I drank wine,’ he offered eventually, a truth and a lie all at once. Valjean just laughed, and steered him back to the chair.

‘More tea, then,’ he said, relieved. ‘You will feel better.’

‘Yes,’ he said, and stared at his cup. ‘I will feel better.’

 

*

 

How would someone ever broach this? He thought of nothing else. He had nothing else to think about, though he supposed, at times, he should be turning his mind to God and asking more forgiveness. Not just for all his sins, but throwing himself into a river too. The Almighty, as a rule, frowned upon such things. So the priests said.

Valjean kissed him first. It was good. He had wanted it, but would never have been able to. Since then, they had become better at it. Which was a very bad thing. One night, they were practicing on the couch, and Valjean asked, ‘have you never been married?’ which he took to be a question of relations, rather than nuptials. Either way, the answer was obviously ‘no’. And there had been a moment where Valjean looked as though he were steeling himself for the inevitable return question, which he, of course, could not ask. They had kissed again, and then he had gone home.

He thought of it though. Yes, he thought of it a lot. And the conundrum was quite clear; that after what he saw, he would rather chop off a hand than ask Valjean to go through that again. And he would rather chop off a hand than go through it himself. And on top of that, he would have to admit he watched the whole thing, and did nothing, and then he would fully expect Valjean to cast him out on his ear. He would rather cut off anything else than have that happen. Anything at all.

 

*

 

‘You are late. I thought you were not coming.’

Valjean stood at the door, and did not move aside. He stood too, and waited. Eventually, he took off his hat. Only then was room made for him to enter. The door stayed open for a moment, then Valjean closed it, and took his hat from his hands. ‘Go on through.’

He wondered, as he walked to the fire, whether ‘late’ counted when you had not appeared for three weeks. He slipped his coat off, and put it over the back of a chair. Valjean walked in, and simply looked at him. He looked away. The clock ticked on; all was still. He had drunk no wine with dinner, and wished he had.

‘You see,’ he said, eventually, to the air. ‘I did a very bad thing, once. Worse than anything that came after, I daresay. And I cannot make amends, except perhaps in one way, but I do not know if it is acceptable.’

That was what he had spent three weeks thinking about. He ignored all the notes in the first week, and the fewer and fewer that came after. He would not blame Valjean for never wanting him here again. Indeed, he hoped for it, except the part of him that would shrivel to nothing if it happened. He was very afraid that part would be his heart.

‘What did you do?’

He looked at the floor, and then turned and walked until he was in front of him. ‘I think you know. I am not sure of it. But I think so.’

He would not look at his face to see confirmation, or denial. He could not. And Valjean said nothing. So he did the only thing he had managed to find that might work. He sank to his knees.

‘What are you doing?’

Valjean’s voice was not cold. Not warm, either. And not surprised. More a weary sadness than anything. Javert, with hesitation, put his hands on his hips. ‘Will it work?’

‘How am I to know? I do not-‘

‘Valjean.’

‘…I was going to say, I do not know how you could. Let alone whether I could stand it.’

‘But it is something you want?’ He looked up then, because the man’s tone gave nothing away, and he could not afford to get this wrong. ‘You kissed me. You have kissed me many times. If you do not want more, just say so, and we can be content with that. But if you do-‘

Valjean’s hands were fists, and his eyes were unnaturally bright. ‘I-‘

He waited. When there did not seem to be anything more, he pressed a little with his hands. Valjean sank into his armchair, and covered his eyes with his hand. ‘Perhaps I should not have kissed you,’ he muttered.

‘Perhaps not. But I am not as sorry as I should be, that you did.’

‘This is why you have stayed away.’

‘Yes. Well, I was trying to think of a way to make it right. But there is no way. And I could stay silent no longer; it is not fair to you.’ He hesitated, and then ran his palms down Valjean’s legs. ‘Did you always know?’

‘Not for sure. I thought – maybe. But then, the jail in Montreuil…’

‘Yes.’

As he thought, then. And now he was at a loss. Valjean dragged his hand down his face, and let it drop. They looked into each other’s faces; either there was nothing to read, or too much, Javert could not say. Valjean looked beaten – and that was his fault, he realised. His fault for going away, and then coming back with this. Perhaps he should not have come back at all. But then the man leaned forward, and kissed him, and he could not remember why he would ever think to stay away.

‘I will not blame you if you leave,’ Valjean whispered, pressed against his lips. ‘I know it must seem disgusting, but I swear, I could not stop them, and-‘

Javert pulled his head back so fast, something pulled. ‘ _What?_ ’

‘-and I do not blame you for not wanting to touch…that is, you know I am sullied, and-‘

‘ _Shut your mouth_.’

He shut his mouth. But he did not raise his eyes. And Javert could not find the right words to say all the reasons he was wrong, that it was wrong he should think such a thing, how wrong Valjean was _not_ in this, but of course he would think he was. ‘It is my fault,’ he said instead, and pressed his hands to Valjean’s waist. ‘I should have stopped it. I did not know what to do, and I was scared, and in the end, I did nothing. It is unforgiveable.’

‘You were young. They might have killed you.’

‘Even so.’

Valjean just shrugged, hopelessly. ‘I thought you did do something. Hoped, maybe. They were flogged, were they not? I heard that.’

‘Not until months later.’

‘Better months than years. So, that was you?’

He nodded. Stupid, how there was still shame for betraying colleagues mixed with the fervent hope that they died of the pox somewhere. And then Valjean’s hand touched his face, and he looked up to see a smile. A real one. ‘Then I must thank you.’

‘No. You must never thank me. But you may let me try to make it better. Perhaps give a different memory.’

Valjean looked to say something, but then did not. He glanced down at the hands still at his waist, and swallowed. 'It has been a long time. More than thirty years,' he said, as if speaking to himself, as if trying to convince himself of something he did not believe. 'I thought I had left it behind with everything else.'

Javert waited, not pushing. And was not surprised when he felt hands at his wrists, pushing them gently away.

‘Perhaps next time,’ said Valjean.

He nodded. Valjean left the room, his shoulders a tight, unmoving line. Javert let himself back into the night, and walked home with silent steps, thinking of nothing at all.

 

*

 

The first Spring shoots were pushing their way out of the ground before he asked again, on his knees in front of that same chair. This time, the air was not quite so heavy. They had not spoken of it since, but the fact that it had been broached at all made a difference. And there was also the matter of the way Valjean would not stop touching him, and he could not stop returning it, and the desire was becoming strong enough to take over everything. Almost everything.

This time, Valjean looked down at him with kiss-bruised lips, and nodded tentatively. ‘Very well. We may try.’

It was very strange, unbuttoning another man’s trousers. He had told himself time and again – as a teenager, as the man in Montreuil – that he would never want it. Toulon had stopped any childhood imagining; the unmasking of Madeleine halted any wandering thoughts of his older self in that direction. Since then, he had allowed nothing at all. But then Valjean, the real Valjean, became known. If nothing else, he wanted to try. ‘You must stop me if you do not like it.’

Valjean nodded. The skin around his mouth was taut, and his lips had pulled to a thin line. Nerves written everywhere; Javert rose on impulse, and kissed him. ‘Swear it.’

‘I swear. I will stop you if I do not like it.’

He kissed him again, and slipped his hand into his trousers. He was not excited, and there was tension through his chest. Javert placed his palm along the length, and tried  not to remember the last time he saw it. And also tried not to think of the choking, and retching, and the force and the obvious pain. But if that is what Valjean chose, he would take it. It would only be just.

He sat back on his heels, and pulled open Valjean’s underwear. His prick was soft, long, curled slightly into his leg. He heard a swallow above him, and saw fingers twitch on his thigh. ‘You may direct me as you will,’ he said, as calmly as he could manage, and then bent his head to press a kiss to the tip. He did it fast, before he lost his nerve. There was a low thrum of excitement in his blood, but he had no intention of paying attention to it. This was not about him, and he did not want it to be.

But he was not sure what to do, or what would feel best. His mind would not stop taking him back to his only other experience with this; in his head, he could see Valjean’s tongue licking slowly around Allard’s cock…he tried to push it away, but his own tongue followed the movement anyway. He moved to the head and started to lick, hard at first, until Valjean put a hand on his shoulder and he took it to mean he should calm down. Light, then; slower. There was a reaction almost at once. At first, just a thickening against his tongue, but then a definite rise and a stiffer sensation. Gentle, still light; he licked until the foreskin pulled back of its own accord, and then took a breath, and started to suck on the swelling head. Valjean inhaled sharply; he stopped and glanced up, and there was another gasp when their eyes met. So, he liked that? Javert held his gaze, and started to move his mouth back and forth. _No teeth_ , came Allard’s voice, and he agreed. Soft, wet lips, a caress rather than any pressure. He slid his tongue along the underside as it thickened out completely, and found the weight of it pleasing. Valjean licked his own lower lip, seemingly transfixed.

‘Is it all right?’ he asked, his mouth still brushing the end. He could not be sure the tension he saw was good, rather than bad. But the thing in front of him spoke on its own, so there was that.

‘Yes. You do not have to stop.’

He nodded, and closed his mouth around him again. Valjean shifted in his chair, blinking; Javert pulled back once more, and ran the tip of his tongue down the frenulum and pushed it harder against the sensitive spot under the head. This was not so difficult. He just had to imagine what he might like himself, and see if it worked. If the slight gasp was anything to go by, it did. He did it again, then traced along the ridge of the tip on the underside; Valjean made a small noise, so he tilted his head and pressed a kiss there, and then held his hand gently to the shaft and sucked the same spot.

‘Ah…! Lord…’

He smiled, still watching his face. It felt strange to be down on his knees; he, Inspector Javert, prostrating himself like this. But at the same time, it was exactly right. If there was ever a man who deserved it, it was Jean Valjean.

There was a spot of moisture at the tip. Slowly, with relish he barely had to feign, he swirled his tongue up over it. The taste was odd too; salty but not too bitter, quite unlike anything else. Another image flashed to mind; that obscene trail of white. He pushed it away and rose on his knees, dropping his gaze at last and sucking him into his mouth properly.

‘Javert!’

He paused. Valjean’s hand slid into his hair, and his hips pressed up just a touch. He waited for the pressure, to be pushed until his throat choked – but no, none of that. It was simply a small encouragement. So he slid down, and then back up, acquainting himself with the feel of this thickness in his mouth. He kept his lips wet and slippery, and took his time; his fingers pushed Valjean’s shirt up so one hand could touch his heaving stomach, and the  other slipped inside his drawers, to lightly cup his sac.  Another noise then, a helpless one; he squeezed just a little, and sped his mouth. His breath came faster through his nose as he tried to keep it even so he would not have to stop; Valjean helped, pressing up into what he was offering, a rocking motion that was barely there but he could not fail to miss, given where he was.

_This_ was what he wanted. _This_ was good. Valjean boneless and melting, gripping in pleasure, not pain. He was aware of his own arousal now, but it was soft and indistinct, not raging through him. He ignored it, and flicked his tongue as best he could, his hand starting to work in tandem. Valjean’s hips sped, and he started to moan; his fingers dug into the arm of the chair, and the others stroked faster and faster through Javert’s hair. ‘It is good,’ he said, to the question Javert wanted to ask, but could not. ‘Yes, it is good, it is good, _oh_ …’

He did not stop. He was merciless. He sucked and licked, and squeezed with his hand; Valjean’s cries were quiet but came without end… _until_ the end, when all sound stopped, when everything went still, when everything tensed and there was just a man brought to completion in his mouth, his legs trembling a little from pushing up, his pleasure sliding easily down his throat.

He released him gently, and felt him sink back to the chair. His hands stroked down his legs, and for a time, he could not look up. He just rested his forehead on his thigh in a parody of submission that was no parody at all, and hoped, prayed, it had worked.

Valjean said nothing for a long time. He did not ask to be licked clean. He just stroked through his hair, down his jaw, along his shoulder. Not unlike petting a dog, Javert thought, but could not find it in him to mind. Eventually, the fingers ushered his chin upwards so they could look at each other. But Valjean did not speak.

‘I want it to be good for you,’ Javert said, quietly. He could not articulate – nor would he try – how important that was. How he had wronged this man, and so many others, but could not give this to anyone else.

‘It was good for me, Javert,’ said Valjean. ‘But what of you?’

He shook his head. ‘No need.’

‘Never?’

‘Just not today, that is all.’

Valjean sighed, and leaned forward, and kissed him. ‘But some time? I will not take anything that you do not. I will not use you that way, as you will not use me. Do you see?’

He nodded. He did see. He did not feel it, not yet, but perhaps that would come. ‘I think…if you do not object, then I would like to stay tonight.’

Valjean’s mouth spread into a grin, and he kissed him again. ‘Any night, Javert. Every night.’

It was, he thought later, going to be difficult. But everything was difficult. Life, work, morals. They things they did, and the reasons they did them. Perhaps one day he would touch him, and not think about what he had seen. Perhaps one day his touch would not remind Valjean of what had been done. There was no way to know. But he had to make the attempt; not just because he wanted to, but because he could not leave it behind until he did. And he suspected the same of Valjean. Maybe this would not last, but he could not see himself living the rest of his life without this man in part of it, and if that part was a struggle…well, that was what they knew. And they had survived this long, despite their best efforts. Who knew what they might manage?

It was a good enough thought to sleep on. He turned, pressed into the warmth beside him, and let himself float away.

 

 


End file.
